The Golden Leopard (29 page)

Her breath caught.
Dear God, no. Please no.

Her turn to leave now. Her turn to run away. She could not bear this. Could not.

But again her feet refused to move. And her voice, detached from the rest of her, spoke vows that had no meaning. They would not be together for better or worse, richer or poorer, sickness or health. They had no intention of being true until death did they part. By agreement, they were to part in three weeks. Not so many. Sixteen days. Fifteen and a half.

It was ridiculous. They were lying to God right here in His house. Lying to each other.

No. This one time, Duran had not deceived her. Not about their counterfeit marriage.

She
was the one telling lies. The vows were, by agreement, intended to be smoke. She wasn’t supposed to mean what she said.

But she did.

Every rational part of her protested the madness of it. The unsuitability. The absolute futility. By the time his warm hand took her cold one to slide the small circle of gold onto her finger, she had recognized the brief flight of fancy for what it had to be, the product of exhaustion and near disaster. She clung to him only because, through her own fault, she had come so near to social disgrace. She felt relief. She was pleased by their temporary but useful contract. No more than that.

But all the while, as they made a mockery of a kiss, and signed the parish register, thanked the vicar and the clerk, walked with high heads and bright smiles past the curious wedding party soon to replace them at the altar—all that time, she knew.

She
knew.

They had left the city proper and driven a considerable way before his bride removed her bonnet and tossed it on the bench across from her. “Well,” she said, “I made a proper fool of myself, didn’t I?”

He could see where this was heading. “Is that one of those trick questions, princess, where I am wrong no matter how I answer it?”

“It was a rhetorical question. I’ve no intention of taking out my anger at myself on you.”

“Good. It isn’t that I’d mind, but there are so many better ways to pass the time. Now, let me see. What could we possibly do, being newly married and lusty creatures into the bargain? Something will come to me. Why don’t
you
come to me?”

“Duran!” She’d gone red. “Not in the carriage.”

“Why not in the carriage? There’s plenty of room, not that we’ll require much of it once we’re joined. Unless you mean to flap around a good deal. I’d enjoy that, actually.”

“I am
not
flapping in this coach, or doing anything that could be mistaken for flapping. We have no privacy here. There are three men directly overhead, and Shivaji is riding alongside. They’d all . . .
know.
”

“Of course they would. They no doubt assume we’re already flapping. It’s what brides and grooms do, first chance they get. Besides, they can’t hear us above the rattle of the wheels and the traffic noises. Unless you think you might scream. They would probably notice that.”

“No screaming. No flapping. It would be embarrassing.”

“It’s true, then,” he said mournfully. “Once a female has got a man leg-shackled, she parcels out her favors like a miser. Will you be as reluctant in our bed at night, knowing that Shivaji is somewhere in the same posthouse? He has eight children, you know, and he didn’t find them floating on lotus pads.”

She turned, brows arched with astonishment. “He does? My heavens. It’s a little difficult to imagine that. I mean, he’s always so dispassionate. So—”

“Unflappable?”

Laughing, she slid across the bench and settled herself in the curl of his arm. “He told me a story once, about a princess who begs for the life of her prince from the Lord of Death. Her request is denied, she returns to her father’s kingdom, and that is that. It disturbed me, because of what you have told me about Shivaji. And, I suppose, because you sometimes call me
princess.
”

“Yes, well, I have always done so, since long before I had the misfortune to make his acquaintance. I know the story, though, as it’s told in the Mahabharata, and you are very like Savitri. She was famous throughout the world for her beauty and intelligence.”

“You won’t win my favors with flattery, Duran.”

“It was worth a try. But there is more to the tale than you appear to have heard. Savitri persuaded the king to let her choose her own husband, unheard of in those times, and wouldn’t you know she lit on Satyavan, who was not a prince at all. Merely a poor but virtuous sod with only a year to live. Which makes one question her intelligence, come to think of it. Anyway, when time was up and Yamaraj took Satyavan away in spite of her pleas, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Instead, she tagged after the Lord of Death, nagging his ears off.”

“Shivaji didn’t tell me this part.”

“He wouldn’t, would he? It might inspire you to start tagging and nagging. Anyway, the unfortunate Yama finally granted her one boon, so long as she consented to go away and let him get on with his business. And she must not ask for Prince Satyavan’s life, which he was not permitted to give her. That’s how she secured long life and prosperity for the king, her father.”

“It wasn’t what she wanted, though.”

“No.” He ought not have started this. And he’d said too much. His own story was not going to end as Satyavan’s had done. “But she got something for her trouble, which is often the best a mere mortal can do. I don’t suppose, if I did a bit of nagging, I might get a little something from you?”

She threw him an annoyed glance. “I might have known you would twist the story for your own purposes.”

“Everyone does.” He pulled down the window shade. “One paltry kiss, then, in exchange for my cleverness? It’s not what I want, of course, but surely you can be at least as gracious as the Lord of Death.”

“Oh, very well, if it means you will cease badgering me. One kiss.”

“Excellent.” He pulled down the other shade. “A boon indeed. It will give me the opportunity to show you, princess, how to make a kiss last for an hour.”

Two hours later, as Jessica slept
in his arms, Duran saw through the window that they were passing through Colchester and nearing the estate of General Sir Grant Calhoon, retired from the East India Company army several years before Hugo Duran had become its least favorite ex-officer. Although they had never met and there was no reason to anticipate trouble, he was not looking forward to the first call on one of Jessica’s collectors.

He hadn’t exactly been raised by wolves, but he’d spent precious little time in aristocratic British company and wasn’t at all sure what she expected of him. Probably to keep his mouth shut and look wisely ornamental, so that she needn’t be ashamed to present him as her husband. Things would be easier, he trusted, once he’d had the opportunity to watch her in action, after which she would no doubt acquaint him with his inadequacies in blistering detail.

In one respect, at least, he’d arranged matters to his liking. Their route, which began with stops in the east and north of England, would place him during the last week of the journey within reach of Liverpool, Bristol, Plymouth, and several other ports.

Jessica’s secretary, who had made the arrangements for horses and lodging, had become an unexpected ally. In addition to keeping track of Sir Gerald Talbot, she was to act as intermediary between Duran and John Pageter, still at High Tor, sending coded messages in her letters to Jessica, who knew nothing of their scheming. That made it something of a challenge to get his hands on her letters, but any communication sent him directly would be intercepted by Shivaji.

Miss Pryce had also become quite the expert on shipping schedules, which was going to prove useful to Duran. It had already done so for Shivaji, when she discovered, in the records and registers of the East India Company, an indication that the leopard might indeed have been destined for a trip to London.

The name of the thief, they had always known, was Thomas Bickford, although the other members of the hunting party hosted by the nizam could provide little information about him. A lieutenant in the Company army on leave after taking a wound, he had ingratiated himself with Lord Clery, the nizam’s principle guest, and because he was a good sportsman and ostensibly well bred, he had been added to the party without question.

Following the theft, Shivaji tracked him to Madras and located him in a rooming house not far from the docks. He was dead, most likely of a fever infesting the area. About sixty pounds in English banknotes and nearly the same amount in rupees were discovered in his saddle pack, but of the leopard, there was no sign.

During her research, Helena learned that an officer named Thomas Bickford, only just promoted from the ranks, had been killed in a skirmish two years before the theft of the leopard. Surmising that the thief had appropriated his identity, she looked for the name, or one similar to it, on the passenger lists of ships sailing from Madras following the theft. The search proved fruitless. If he’d meant to take ship, he must have secured passage under his true name or some other alias.

So she recorded the names of men who had booked passage and subsequently failed to board ship. There were eleven in all, three scheduled to travel with their families
and several others found to have taken later sailings. Eventually the search narrowed to four men whose whereabouts could not be established.

Those names shot immediately to the top of Shivaji’s must-find list. Helena was attempting to learn if any one of them had dispatched luggage or parcels to the trader before failing to board it, and if so, who had claimed the shipments when they reached England. The line of investigation seemed promising, but there was little chance she’d come up with a lead before Duran’s scheduled execution.

At least they now had four names to float by the collectors they were to visit, and during the next few days, Duran came to admire the way Jessica slipped them into her inquiries. He had always been impressed with her wit, her temper and pride, her iron will and surprising uncertainty. He was especially partial to the boundless and uninhibited passion with which she flung herself into their lovemaking.

What he’d not been privileged to see, until now, were the qualities a wiser man would have intuited from the first. The social skill of an earl’s daughter, for example, and her impressive knowledge of art and artifacts. Her talent for steering a conversation the direction she wanted it to go. She knew all the right questions to ask, the ones that flattered the collectors and gave them a chance to show off, and the ones that led, inexorably, to queries about feline-shaped icons from the subcontinent. He began to believe that if the leopard were in the possession of someone on their list, or if any of them had a notion of where it might be, Jessica Carville would find a way to elicit the information.

One evening, while they were undressing in their room at the posthouse, he had congratulated her on the aplomb with which she’d handled an especially cantankerous collector. Her pleasure at the slight compliment had taken him aback. How hungry she was for approval, how uncertain of her own gifts. Her bitch of a mother had a great deal to answer for.